Part 3
She waited.
He had said the sentence people used when the truth was exactly like that but carried additional details they believed should soften it.
“We were under enormous pressure at work,” he said. “The acquisition was collapsing. Camille and I were together constantly.”
“In hotels?”
His face flushed.
The answer was yes.
Leah looked back at the photograph on the wall.
The newborn hand. The adult finger.
“Did you tell her you loved her?”
Nolan leaned forward, forearms on his knees.
“I told her things I should not have told her.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
Leah inhaled carefully.
A tightening began again. The monitor marked it.
She kept her face still until it passed.
Nolan watched the printed line.
“What is that?”
“A contraction.”
He stood.
“Should I call someone?”
“They know.”
“Leah—”
“They’re monitoring me because the woman you loved put her shoe in front of me and you watched.”
His face folded inward.
“I didn’t know she would hurt you.”
“You knew she hated me.”
“She didn’t hate you.”
Leah almost admired the reflex.
Even now, he protected Camille from an emotion as impolite as hatred.
“She smiled when I fell.”
“I saw.”
“You didn’t pull away.”
“I was trying not to make a scene.”
“There was blood on my dress.”
“I know.”
“And your concern was the scene.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He came to the side of the bed.
“I followed you.”
“After you spoke to her.”
“She was panicking.”
Leah stared at him.
“Camille was panicking.”
“She understood how it looked.”
“How it looked?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Nothing seems to be what you mean until after you say it.”
The door opened before he could answer.
Mara arrived with a wheelchair.
“We’re ready for ultrasound.”
Nolan reached for the bed rail.
Mara stopped him with a look.
“I can assist her.”
“I’m her husband.”
Leah watched the nurse’s expression register the sentence and distrust it.
“I don’t want him touching me,” Leah said.
Nolan’s hand fell.
Mara helped her sit upright. Leah’s knees throbbed when her feet met the floor. The stain on the dress had darkened but had not grown.
Nolan saw her looking.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I wasn’t alone in the corridor.”
He stepped back as Mara guided the wheelchair out.
The ultrasound room was dim. Cool gel touched Leah’s skin. The technician did not offer conclusions, only measurements and quiet instructions.
Leah stared at the screen.
The baby’s head appeared first, then the line of a spine, the rapid pulse of the heart. One hand rested near his face. His mouth opened and closed.
She began crying without sound.
Mara stood near the wall, arms folded loosely.
“Can you tell if the placenta is separating?” Leah asked.
“The doctor will interpret the images.”
“Can you see anything?”
The technician’s face remained neutral.
“That is for the physician.”
Leah knew neutrality was part of the job. She also knew people used it when they saw something and did not want to say too soon.
The scan lasted twenty-three minutes.
When they returned, Nolan was gone.
Leah looked at the empty chair and hated herself for expecting relief or pain. She felt both.
Dr. Chen arrived with the results.
“There is no clear evidence of a major placental abruption.”
Leah released a breath she had been holding since the corridor.
“But,” Dr. Chen continued, “you are having intermittent contractions, and there is a small area we want to observe. We’re admitting you overnight.”
“Will he come early?”
“It is possible, but our goal is to stop the contractions and monitor.”
“Is he in distress?”
“Not at this time.”
Not at this time.
Again.
Leah agreed to medication, intravenous fluids, and observation. She changed into a hospital gown while Mara folded the stained maternity dress into a clear belongings bag.
“Don’t wash it,” Mara said.
Leah looked at her.
“Why?”
“Hospital risk management will ask whether you want to file an incident report.”
“An incident?”
Mara’s mouth tightened.
“They will use that word.”
“Did you already report what you saw?”
“I gave an initial statement.”
“What did you say?”
“That the woman extended her foot into your path.”
Relief and dread arrived together.
“Will you change it?”
Mara looked offended, then tired.
“No.”
“You hesitated in the corridor.”
“I work here. The woman who did it is the daughter of the foundation chair.”
Leah knew Camille’s father funded half the hospital’s new maternity wing. His name appeared on the glass entrance downstairs.
“Can they fire you?”
“They can make many things unpleasant.”
“Why tell the truth?”
Mara glanced toward the fetal monitor.
“Because you are not the only person who saw what happened.”
“The camera?”
“Maybe. The camera angle may not show the floor clearly.”
“Then who?”
“You.”
Leah almost laughed.
“That hasn’t been enough in my marriage.”
Mara set the bag on the counter.
“It may need to become enough for you.”
Nolan returned at six in the evening carrying Leah’s overnight bag.
She had not asked him to pack it.
He had chosen the gray robe she disliked, two pairs of socks, a toothbrush, phone charger, face cream, and the paperback novel from her nightstand. He forgot underwear.
The ordinary mistakes unsettled her.
He placed the bag near the chair.
“I brought your things.”
“Who let you into the house?”
“It’s our house.”
She looked at him.
He understood and sat down.
“Camille called me,” he said.
“Of course she did.”
“She has retained counsel.”
“For tripping me?”
“She says it was an accident.”
“You said you didn’t know she would do it.”
Nolan rubbed his palms together.
“I meant I didn’t know she would step toward you.”
“You didn’t say step.”
“I was in shock.”
“You lie differently when you’re in shock?”
His face tightened.
“She believes you approached her aggressively.”
“I was walking down a hospital hallway.”
May you like
“You confronted her.”
Leah remembered the moment before the fall more clearly now.
